The Tharsis Sforzando
by katilara
Summary: In learning how to navigate between heaven and hell, Vicious and Spike also learn to bear the consequences of love and hate.
1. Vicious One

**A/N:** A little more tell not show than I'm usually allowed to get away with, but I rather like how it turned out. Everyone has to start somewhere, yeah?

* * *

**2059 - Tharsis**

The small boy sat on the corner and spat peanut shells into the street. He hadn't eaten in three days and no water but the occasional rain shower had touched his body in two weeks. He ran his tongue over his teeth and tried to knock out all of the pieces of broken shell sticking to them. It hadn't been hard, the not eating, he didn't have any money.

His flight from home had been unplanned, and the panic and anger he had left in precluded even hasty preparations. A civil war had been brewing in the streets of Alba Patera for a year now, and the squabbling gangs had finally gotten around to open recruitment. He had refused to join either side, knowing that they were both wrong, and that nothing good would come of it, regardless which side absorbed the power. One side had captured his sister, holding her for the ransom of he joining their ranks, and he had refused, knowing that she would probably have died anyway. They killed her, and then they came after him. He disappeared.

In Tharsis he had taken to pretending he was a ghost, already dead. He would disappear into alleys or underground, only to reappear some time later, reinvented. Often he would steal new clothing or purposefully develop a new habit, last week he walked with a limp, this week he smoked. He would play hide and seek with himself and his memories of home. It would have been a more challenging game if anyone here knew who he was to begin with. Instead, he was permanently hidden on the streets under dirt and water and smoke, because no one cared to look for him. Then he ceased hiding and took to seeking.

There were whole casts of supporting characters in a hub like Tharsis, and each one of them had a story, if only you were persistent enough to follow them. For the last week he had been tailing a group of men he called The Three. Every day he watched them arrive at the same rusting metal door wearing the same heavy black coats. They never took anything in, and they never brought anything out. When they appeared he would hide behind trash cans or walls, trying to blend in to the light concrete walls on either side of the street. Then, when he was sure they were settled inside, he would come out of his hiding place and sneak up to the door to listen. The voices would be muffled through the metal, and when they raised enough for him to understand them they were always about life or death. He desperately wished there was a window so he could see as well as hear.

He stopped fidgeting with his tongue as the men rounded the corner. Carefully he scrambled back on his elbows around a stair case and watched them cross the road. This time, one of them had brought a gun. Then he stood and crept over to the door, like had four days in a row, and listened. He stretched out as close to the wall as he could get, enjoying the warmth that burned the skin on his arms and roasted the backs of his calves through his jeans. Listening, he felt like he was part of something, like he belonged somewhere.

At first it was quiet, and he felt cheated. He had started to inch away from the door when something exploded inside and his heart pounded heavily with the sound of gunfire. He closed his eyes and let the shouts and shots dictate when he breathed in and out. A single shot, sharp intake of breath. A plea for help, slow, ragged exhale. He stood there in mid step after the noise faded away, soaking up the familiarity of the heat and the excitement crackling in the silence. The kinetic energy hummed through the door and worked its way through his limbs, waking him up to the power of possibilities and of everything he had ever seen.

It was silent again, and he knew that if the game was to continue, he would have to be out of sight. He had just slipped around the corner when the door flew open and bounced off the concrete wall with a bang. None of the men looked at the boy as they spilled out into the street. The tallest one, cupped his hands over his nose and mouth as he lit a cigarette. His dark hair was cropped short, and the boy wished that his own hair was dark and not the pale white he had always hated.

"Do they never listen?" said the man to his left. He was the one holding the gun. He waved the tip into the air for emphasis. "Simple cause and effect man. We tell them what to do, they don't do it, we shoot them. Wasn't that clear?"

The man with the cigarette nodded. The boy studied him, trying to replicate the placement of his hands. He wanted to be that man. The one to his right smiled as he looked up the street. "At least they died quickly. With the caliber of people boss has been dealing with lately it's all we can ask anymore. Say there Mao, hurry up and take over so I can feel like I have a purpose again."

"Yeah," the first man was putting the gun into a hidden pocket in his coat. "Somehow, this taking out the trash doesn't exactly thrill me anymore."

The men chuckled as they drifted down the street and the boy watched them, wanting to follow them, to be one of them. Then his stomach growled and he remembered the peanut shells poking at his gums. He wondered…

Looking after the men, and then in the other direction to see if anyone was watching, he came back around the corner and slipped into the half open door. It was dark in the room, and the smell clawed at the air in his nostrils and lungs. It washed over him and oozed out into the open.

When his eyes adjusted he saw that there were three men in the room. One was slumped over a table, red vials and broken glass littered around his head, or what was left of it. The other two men were lying at awkward angles, flanking his chair.

Blood and the red liquid from the bottles mixed on the table, watery and thick, and in it, there was sitting a bottle of topaz colored liquid, a bowl of rice, splattered with the red, and a dark pair of chopsticks. His stomach growled again and he edged forward slowly and reached out for the chopsticks, anticipating the smoothness and the wet. Something inside him snapped and, not being able to control himself anymore, he jerked the bowl through the mess on the table and brought it up to his mouth, letting the rice fall into it and over his shirt. He reached to the glass and emptied it into his throat. The liquid burned in his throat and his stomach and his brain, and for a moment even the smell of death was overridden.

There was a noise behind him, small snap. He put the glass back on the table with a loud clunk and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel the red mixture clinging to his cheeks and clothing, his white shirt ruined.

"So young one, you were hungry then?" It was the man with the cigarette, the one they called Mao. He looked at the boy and the boy imagined what he must look like, a pale shock in a black and red room. The man smiled. "Beautiful scavenger, vicious creature, what is your name?"

The boy raised his hands to elbow height and looked at them. They were drenched in sticky redness. The boy knew his name, but it was connected to his past, to the person he wasn't anymore. It belonged to the person who had betrayed his only living family member and then ran like a coward. That person was dead.

Somehow nothing he could say seemed appropriate in front of this man. He was afraid the sound of his voice would break the spell and the first person who had talked to him since he had come into Tharsis would disappear into nothing, like the thin smoke evaporating around the man's head. He was quiet. He wiped his fingers on the thighs of his jeans and, shrugging, smiled. The man looked back at him and smiled in return, a different smile than any the boy had ever seen, one that looked like he felt. Oh yes, it would be fun being this man.

"Come with me vicious one. I know a place we can find something better to eat."

Mao reached out and plucked one of the unbroken vials off of the table and fingered it thoughtfully, wiping the traces of blood off of it before he slipped it into his pocket. Then he reached his hand out to the boy and the boy reached back, mirroring him, thrilling at the first deliberate human touch he had received in years. He would be whatever this man wanted. He would hide in who he could be forever. Vicious one, yes, he liked it.

* * *

**Notes:** Alba Patera is the name of a volcanic feature north of the Tharsis region on Mars. 


	2. The Starting Gun

**A/N:** It's been more than 2 months. hides I've been toying with this chapter since December and it's still driving me insane. But I really like the third chapter and want to just get on with it, so I'm giving up on tinkering with this one. I've just come to terms with the fact that it's a getting there chapter. Thanks to marilla82 for the hot chocolates at B&N and betaing. I can't do anything without her, seriously.

* * *

**2061 – Tharsis**

The men stood across the aisles from each other and talked nonchalantly, as if about the weather. One man had his hands in the pockets of his grey suit. The other studied a bag of ramen and flipped his black hair over his shoulder where it blended in with his suit.

"A package then, how simple," said the second man. He tossed the ramen down onto the shelf and moved down the aisle.

"Remote detonation?" The first man stood in one place and folded in on himself nervously. His eyes flicked from Annie behind the counter to the doorway to the stockroom. They shouldn't be discussing this in public, and he knew it.

"Impulsive delivery man," said the second.

"Ah," and then, "right to his office?"

He nodded and put his hands into his pockets, mirroring his partner. "From a trusted associate," he said, his voice lowered.

"Yes, clearly."

"When?"

The man in the black jacket twisted his head around and checked his watch removing his hands from his pockets. "Half an hour, maybe less."

There was a small crash as Annie dropped the case of cigarettes she had been adding to the display behind the counter. Spike poked his head out of the stock room to see if everything was all right. He sized up the customers as syndicate men and stepped into the storefront and coughed to make sure they saw him. In the three months he'd been working for Annie he'd seen more syndicate men than regular customers, and he'd almost learned how to play them.

He knelt down behind the counter and helped Annie gather the packets. As he handed the last of them to her, he noted how her hand was shaking. His eyes flicked back to the men, who had moved towards the doorway. The one in black was lighting a cigarette. "Hey," he whispered.

Annie averted her eyes from the men and stood up. She wiped her hands down the front of her shirt and stepped from behind the counter. "Spike, I need to get something heavy from the back, could you please come help me?"

He nodded followed after her. Once in the back she whipped out a sheet of paper and the red seal stickers he had come to associate with jogs across town and expensive, dangerous looking men. "I need you to take a message for me Spike, to the usual place."

"Annie, is it ok if I leave?" He watched the men through the crack in the door. They were still loitering and compulsively touching things. "Do you think you'll need-, I mean, they're still here."

"I'll be fine boy, and it's not me you should worry over." She finished the note and stuffed it hastily into an envelope. Then she added the seal and shoved it into his hands. "Just get this to Mr. Yenrai, as fast as you can. I'll let you have the rest of the evening off if you like."

He wanted to protest, it was ridiculous to leave a woman alone with men like that about, but he knew she wouldn't hear of it. She had that look on her face that she used when young boys tried to steal girly magazines. It was that look that said she wouldn't take any nonsense from the likes of him, or anyone. "Yes ma'am," he said, and shot out of the store, purposefully knocking into the man in black into the doorframe on the way out.

…

Spike had become well acquainted with Mao Yenrai over his time in Tharsis. He delivered little notes like this for Annie often and was always asked to stay and wait for a reply. At first he had tried to remain stoic, to look as if he didn't care about his surroundings, because he thought it would make him look more grown up. And as he stood he would catalogue the things in the office, eyeing them calmly and trying to remember them, for the day when he had power like that.

Now he stood in the room comfortably, feeling as at home here as in his own, small and sparse apartment. His hands were clasped behind his back and he stared over Mao's bent head through the plate glass windows behind the desk that looked out over Tharsis. He thought about all those little people on the street who would never see a view like this. It was always a thought that made him smile.

There was a beep over the phone and Mao's secretary's high-pitched voice came over the speaker. "Sir, a gentleman out front says he has important business with you. I tried telling him that he would need an appointment, but he said it was urgent."

Mao looked up at Spike and furrowed his eyebrows. "Tell him I'm attending to an important guest and he'll have to wait."

"Yes, sir," she said. The phone beeped out and then there was a pounding on the large, dark red double doors. Mao pressed the intercom button to call a guard and the doors were flung open. A man strode in carrying a black briefcase. He wore a suit much like the longhaired man at the store had and his blonde hair was cropped and pasted into place. He looked past Spike to Mao, writing the boy off as inconsequential. He laid the briefcase lightly on Mao's desk, and slid it over the wood. Annie's message was pushed into Mao's lap.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mao demanded. He remained seated, not wishing to show such impertinence the honor of standing. "I don't know where you're from young man, but this is not how the Red Dragon does business."

"Our leader respectfully gives you his notice," the man said, and bowed deeply to Mao.

"That may be so," Mao said, and pushed the case back towards the man, "but you will have to wait outside until I'm finished with this young man's correspondence."

"No, you will open it now," he stopped and stood up again. He smiled, "sir." Mao looked at Spike, who nodded and moved behind the man. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he'd think of something, he'd dealt with thugs before. The man turned and pulled a gun from under his jacket. For the first time in Spike's life he was face to face with the cold metal of a weapon. He blinked.

"I don't want any funny business out of you either, brat. The old man's gonna open the package or you're gonna die, his choice."

Spike watched over the man's back at Mao. Perfect. Spike brought his arm up and knocked the gun to the side. The man startled and pulled the trigger. A bullet tore through Spike's shoulder. He couldn't breathe.

Spike fell backwards and the man turned and pointed the gun at Mao. Spike cradled his right arm and pushed himself forward with his left. He kicked the back of the gunman's knees and sent him keeling forward. Another shot shattered the air. This one went through one of the books on the shelf, sending down a snow of wood splinters and tatters of paper.

Silence settled in the room with the detritus, and outside shouts and footsteps grew louder. Spike closed his eyes and lay out on the floor. He curled into a ball and Mao stood from behind his desk, pointing a gun at the man. Shaking, the man placed his hands behind his head. "Not so tough anymore are you? If anything happens to that boy, you won't live long enough to regret it. Get up."

The doors banged open again and three men rushed in, guns out. Two of the men rushed over to the gunman and knocked the gun out of his hand and lifted him to his feet. The third, tall and thin in a long black coat, moved across the room toward Mao.

Mao laid the gun on the desktop and pointed to Spike. The man moved around the desk and through the clutter. Everything seemed to tremble and lean away from him, most notably the guards who held onto the gunman.

Spike squinted, because his vision had gone fuzzy with pain. He recognized him from the store. It had to be the same boy who came in to see Annie from time to time. White hair hung around his tight cheeks as he bent forward and held out a hand. Spike took a hold of it with his left hand and was pulled up roughly. He steadied himself as a wave of nausea washed over him and placed a hand over the wound. He started to thank the boy, but he had already turned away and was collecting the case, obviously not overly concerned with Spike's well being.

"Take this man downstairs," Mao said. "And Vicious, you know what to do." The white haired boy nodded. He turned and left the room, the other men followed after him. "Spike," Mao moved around the desk and started to push things away from the edge.

Spike tried to take a step forward and grimaced as the pain shot from the wound to his spine and then spread through his entire body. "Come here," Mao said, and held out his hand. Spike shuffled slowly towards the desk. His knees gave out as he reached it, and he fell forward. He caught himself with his hip and looked down into the polished wood. He could almost make out his face reflected in the surface. It didn't look like him.

"I'm going to have to cut your shirt," Mao said. Spike didn't reply as Mao reached over the desk and pulled open the top drawer. He pulled out a pair of scissors and a small silver case and laid them on the desktop. Then he went to the bookshelf and retrieved a decanter of clear liquid. "Can you get on the desk? You should probably be sitting."

Spike nodded and turned around. He slid himself back onto the desk with Mao's help and let his legs dangle over the edge. Mao picked up the scissors and pulled the thin white cotton of Spike's shirt away from his skin. He began to cut away at it around the wound so that Spike wouldn't have to move his arm to take it off. Spike winced and turned his head away. He had never felt pain like this, never even broken a bone, so he wasn't sure whether to cry or pass out. He settled for feeling sick to his stomach and gritted his teeth. His breathing was shallow because when his lungs moved they made his shoulder hurt and oxygen just wasn't worth it.

Mao opened the case, revealing a set of thin tongs and a large amount of bandages. He picked up the tongs and pulled the crystal top off the decanter. "Gin," he said by way of explanation. "Do you want any of this, before I use it?" Spike looked at it and thought about the liquid touching his lips. He was hit by another wave of nausea, which caused him to heave and double over. "I guess not," Mao said, a small trace of amusement in his voice. He dipped the tongs in the gin.

He gently placed his hand on Spike's left shoulder and pushed him back upright. "This is going to hurt, which is an understatement. You saved me; you don't have to be brave any more." Mao used the cut pieces of Spike's shirt to wipe away the blood. Spike took a deep breath. Mao inserted the tongs in the hole and rooted around until he found the bullet. Spike couldn't feel any other part of his body but his shoulder. It burned and itched as Mao pulled the bullet out. His vision went black for a moment, and when it returned Mao was pouring gin on the remaining clean strips of Spike's shirt and wiping at the wound. Then he pulled out the bandages and started wrapping them over his shoulder and around his torso, trying to contain the wound.

"You know," he said as he worked. "I've seen men who've been shot multiple times cry during an extraction."

Spike gritted his teeth. "I think to cry, I'd have to be able to feel my tear ducts."

Mao chuckled. "Fair enough," he said. He pushed a button on his phone, then went to the small closet in the office's corner and started to root around.

"Yes sir," came the secretary's voice again. Spike had always hated her voice, now he could feel it cut through him.

"Mary, page Vicious for me please and have him bring the car round front. Then have him come up to escort Mr. Spiegel home."

"Yes sir," she said, and there was a small beep as she hung up.

"Can't be sending you off alone in this condition," Mao said. He backed out of the closet with a black sweater in hand and closed the door behind him. He brought it back and offered it out to Spike. "Here you go now." He held the sweater over Spike's head as he slipped the uninjured arm through the sleeve and then tugged it down his torso and into place, covering his injured arm in a wrap of soft wool. "There, shouldn't send you off half naked either, Annie would never forgive me."

Mao paced in front of the desk. "Spike, I want to talk to you about working for me. I can pay you much more than Annie. Give you more of everything, in fact." Spike shook his head and shifted to the left, trying to favor his right side. That whole side of his body had started to ache.

"Yes, I understand recent experience would suggest you'd have a short life expectancy, but I can promise you that-" he broke off as there was a quiet knock at the door. Spike felt it echo through his rib cage. "But then, Vicious can answer any questions you might have. Enter!"

Vicious opened the door Mao helped Spike off the couch and led him over to where Vicious stood, eyeing him with a mixture of pity and what seemed like contempt. He turned as Spike approached the threshold and started down the hallway to the elevators.

"I'm sure I'll see you again," Mao said by way of parting and nodded after Vicious. Spike started after the white haired boy. "Oh, and Spike," he stopped and looked over his good shoulder, wincing at the pain. "Be sure to tell Annie this wasn't her fault. I know her, and I know she'll just beat herself up about it." Spike nodded slightly and then made his way to the elevator that Vicious was holding for him.

Vicious didn't say anything on the ride in the elevator or the walk through the lobby to the car. Only when they were inside and he was pulling away from the building did he finally speak. "Where is it you want to go," he said. His voice was dry and disinterested. As many times as they'd seen each other in the passing, it was the first thing he had ever said to Spike directly. Spike could almost feel the gulf between them, and wished that the look in Vicious' eyes didn't make his spine go numb, even if it was a relief at this point.

"Just take me back to Annie's," he said. Spike leaned his forehead against the glass of the passenger side window and closed his eyes to try and calm the new waves of nausea that were wracking his body. He couldn't work, but right now he also couldn't stand to go back to his apartment and be completely alone.


End file.
